Deadlock

by Catherine Coulter

  LEARN HOW TO MAKE YOUR OWN PUZZLES

  If she’d been in a bathtub, she’d have jumped out and shouted, “Eureka!” Pippa snapped a photo with her cell when she was sure Maude Filly was otherwise occupied, walked to a corner of the shop, and shot off another text with the photo to Savich.

  She waited, studied Mrs. Filly as she rang up another sale and interacted with her customers. When there was a break again, Pippa walked back up to her. “I see your sign about making your own puzzles. Do you give classes?”

  “No, not exactly classes. If someone asks for advice I help them with the design they want or recommend several different designs to them. Help them set it up.”

  “I’ll bet people love to turn photos into puzzles, right? Like with Shutterfly? You send them your photo and they make a puzzle out of it?”

  Mrs. Filly nodded. “Many people want to give their puzzles a personal touch.”

  “You’re so talented. I bet people from all over have heard of you and come in.”

  “Aren’t you sweet. Yes, I have a lot of visitors.”

  Pippa pointed to Major Trumbo leaning out the window. “That one is fascinating. Did anyone want to make a puzzle like it?”

  “Hmm, I don’t think so. That’s not to say that someone couldn’t simply take a photo of it if they wanted to. I’d never know.”

  “Have you sold many of Major Trumbo’s puzzles?”

  “Not all that many. Mostly only to folks who knew him and get a good laugh. The few others who’ve bought the puzzle only see a nasty old dude with a snake kissing him. Gives lots of people the willies.” Mrs. Filly cocked her head at Pippa in question. “Why all the interest in that particular puzzle? You never knew Major Trumbo, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t know him. The puzzle’s unusual, makes me wonder about the nasty old dude.”

  Mrs. Filly didn’t smile, but she nodded. “People prefer the monsters and the gore, and maybe the Jack Nicholson. Now, the Jack one makes my skin crawl.”

  More customers poured into the store, and Mrs. Filly turned to greet them. Pippa had so many more questions, about her records, about how her puzzles were made, but she didn’t want to make Mrs. Filly suspicious. The way the woman had looked at her when she’d asked how many Major Trumbo puzzles she’d sold—maybe she already was. It was time to move on. She’d swing back around later.

  Pippa left Maude’s Creepy Puzzles, snapped another photo of the storefront, and sent it to Dillon. Then she headed to Columbo Square, another two blocks inland.

  The air was fresh with a slight breeze, and the sun was bright overhead, a perfect fall day for the tourists strolling around town. After a block, Pippa pulled off her leather jacket as she walked toward the square. She felt euphoric, amazed at how quickly the puzzle mystery seemed to be coming together. But she realized, even with her meager experience, that something seemed off. The puzzle had almost been served up on a platter for her where she couldn’t miss it. Was someone trying to lure the FBI to St. Lumis? She’d asked only a few questions before Mrs. Filly had looked at her oddly. Why? Had she given herself away by showing all that interest? When she went back, she’d have to be more careful.

  It was time to talk to more of the locals. Pippa turned right off Columbo Square, with its giant bronze statue of General Columbo in the center astride his rearing horse, its hooves flying high. The square looked wilted from the hot summer, and the grass was brown. She started to sit on one of the benches, thinking perhaps someone she recognized would come by, but she decided to keep walking toward her former family home and see how it was faring. Maybe the owners would come out and talk. She walked two blocks down Pilchard Street and turned onto Blue Lagoon Lane. Her former home was on the left, three houses down. She stopped and stared. She couldn’t believe her once-tidy clapboard house and immaculate yard with flowers blooming everywhere, thanks to her mother, was now painted a virulent pink, a car on blocks in the driveway. The yard looked like it hadn’t been tended or a flower planted since her parents left. She wanted to scream, or cry. She remembered her parents saying they’d sold the house for a great price to a lovely couple from Norway. Apparently the folks from Norway had decided to go back to Oslo and sold it to some yahoos. She wanted to burst through the pink door and yell at whoever lived there. Calm yourself. It’s only a house. It has nothing to do with you now. Still, she snapped photos with her phone. Should she send them to her parents? No way. She deleted them instead. As she stood staring at the house, the front door opened, and a young man stepped out, yawning, wearing only a pair of tatty jeans, looking buff and scruffy. He made a sprint to the driveway to pick up the St. Lumis Herald and stopped in his tracks when he saw her.

  18

  “Hey, who are you? Why are you standing there?”

  Pippa shook herself. What the house looked like didn’t matter. The derelict yard that would make her mother weep, it didn’t matter, either, not for seven years. She called out, all bonhomie, “I stopped to admire the lovely pink paint.”

  The man guffawed and gave her a white-toothed smile. “Yeah, right, funny girl. It’s a bloody nightmare, but that’s Ma for you, loves her pink. The pinker the better. I’m only visiting. I couldn’t live here. It’d make me nuts, send me screaming into the night. My name’s Hunt. You want to come in for a cup of coffee? Ma’s at church. Hey, once you’re inside, there’s no more pink, I promise.”

  Too bad Hunt didn’t live here. The chances of his being of any help were close to nil. She gave him a big smile. “Not today, but thank you.”

  He waved and turned back to the house, whistling.

  Pippa walked another block inland, past an older square brick apartment building, circa 1970, surrounded by denuded maple trees and small older houses with smaller front yards built nearly to the worn sidewalk. There was a new sign for a hair salon in one window. Otherwise everything seemed the same. There were children playing football in a side yard, young girls going wildly high on swings hanging from low oak branches. She heard parents’ voices from inside the houses and the sound of TV cartoons, but mainly football games blasting out. She supposed as long as Sunday football was king, things would remain the same.

  She kept walking through the neighborhoods, getting a feel again for the town she’d once known down to her callused bare feet. She saw a new café on her right, June’s Eats, and thank goodness, it was open. She walked into an art deco movie set, beautifully done, with booths and tables, a long counter with stools, the open kitchen in the back. A pretty young woman stood behind the cash register, giving change to a customer. Pippa recognized her immediately. June Florio, her dad a banker in Annapolis, her mom a schoolteacher in Mayo. And now she owned a café? Amazing what paths people took. Look at Pippa, from lawyer to FBI agent. The place was popular, already filling up for lunch. There was a waiter tending to the dozen customers.

  June looked up and smiled. “Can I help you?” The friendly smile changed to a dawning look of recognition. “Wait, I know you. Pippa—yes, that’s right, Pippa Cinelli. Goodness, I forgot how pretty you were. Welcome home.”

  Pippa gave June Florio a big smile. “Thank you. What a beautiful café, and I love the black-and-white art deco squares on the floor. Were you at the party last night at Leveler’s?”

  “You wouldn’t know it now, but last night I was Marie Antoinette. My husband, Doug, came as one of my lovers and draped himself all over me the entire night. As you can see, he’s not around. The idiot is home in bed, groaning. I was tempted to pour cold water over his head. Between moans, he said everyone would be hungover today after last night at Leveler’s Inn, and we should just stay closed. Happens every year. Look around, he was dead wrong.” She waved her hand toward the dozen or so people seated around the café. “Over there’s a big tub of cold bottled water, great for a hangover, in case you drank too much of that vodka pretending to be punch?”

  Pippa smiled. “I didn’t have another drop after I saw yet another Einstein with electrified hair pour in a ful
l flask of vodka. I’m out for a walk on this beautiful November day. Visiting all my old haunts.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Down the road in Washington. This is a mini-vacation for me. It’s good to see you, June. So far, I’ve got to say, nothing much has changed.”

  “No, nothing ever changes here. Well, except I’m married to the guy holding his head at home. I’m June Sweazy now. Do you remember Doug Sweazy? He was our running back in high school, had a smooth tongue, a great body?”

  “I do indeed. He also had a great sense of humor, I remember. I had a crush on him.”

  “Yeah, I did, too. I remember your dad. He was always so nice.”

  “Thank you, I’ll pass it along.” Pippa looked down at her watch. Where had the time gone? She heard a man call out June’s name. “I’m keeping you away from your customers. Maybe I could have a tuna salad sandwich, and we can talk when you’re free?”

  In short order, Pippa was eating her sandwich while June dealt with customers, smiling and friendly. In free moments, she asked June to tell her about what had happened in the seven years since she’d visited.

  Not much, apparently. Pippa mentioned the puzzle store.

  June shuddered, then grinned. “That place gives me the creeps. It’s fitting, I guess, since ‘creepy’ is in the name of Maude’s store. I’ve only been in there a couple of times. Now, if you ask me, Maude is on the strange side. She’s too obsessed with snakes and monsters. Wouldn’t that warp your brain?”

  Pippa nodded. “She told me she helps people who want to make their own puzzles. I guess you’ve never done that?”

  “Goodness, no, and I don’t know of anyone who has. She has a boyfriend, an older gentleman from around Annapolis. Every two weeks she closes her puzzle shop, and the two of them leave St. Lumis for a couple of days. It’s like clockwork. She always puts a sign in the window: Going on a short honeymoon. Where, I asked her once, and she only smiled and shook her head.”

  That was interesting. Perhaps she could bring it up casually when she went back to the puzzle shop later in the afternoon. “I visited her puzzle store this morning. You’re right, ‘creepy’ is the perfect word for it.”

  “I think Maude Filly’s a hoot, always wearing hippy tie-dye and Birkenstocks, except for Halloween when she turns into Madam Rasputin and wears a turban and flowing robes. But hey, she’s nice and does great business with tourists, especially with their kids. The more gore the better for the kids.”

  “Does she talk much about Major Trumbo?”

  June shook her head.

  “She told me about him when I saw a puzzle with him hanging out of a window of the old Alworth Hotel. I got the impression there’s not much love lost there.”

  “Since she and the second Mrs. Trumbo appear to be good friends, I guess not.” June was off to fill coffee cups.

  When she was free again, Pippa asked her about Chief Matthew Wilde. “He took Chief Cosby’s place, right?”

  June said as she wiped down the counter, “Now, there’s a pleasing hunk of man, been here maybe three years now.” She leaned closer. “Field Sleeman’s youngest daughter, Freddie, is after him now. I think he even went out with her a couple of times, then sheared off. Freddie is her nickname, which her parents hate. She’s maybe twenty-four now, went to school to be an interior designer. And no, I haven’t seen any of her work.”

  Pippa’s eyebrow went up. “A bit young for him, isn’t she?”

  June shrugged. “Only nine years between them, or thereabouts. In any case, who cares? A hunk’s a hunk.”

  Pippa laughed. “True enough. So Chief Wilde decided he wasn’t interested?”

  June nodded as she measured coffee into the pot. “Alas for Freddie, she’s not giving up. Would you like a slice of apple pie? Mrs. Hodkins makes them for us, renders our customers mute with pleasure, and gives her extra income.”

  “What I’d really like is another one of Mrs. Trumbo’s oatmeal cookies,” Pippa said.

  “Aren’t they delicious? Now, there’s a friendly woman, gruff and smiling, all at once. Tells you what to do, then gives you a cookie. She’s always talking about how important family is, but then she never speaks of her own family. I don’t know how many are left.”

  “Her husband, Major Trumbo, he died before she bought the Calder Victorian and made it a B&B, right?”

  June laughed. “Do you know, I’m not sure. She, Major Trumbo, and her son, Ronald Pomfrey, moved here half a dozen years ago. Mrs. Filly already lived here.” June shrugged. “The two former wives are the best of friends. Go figure. They still like to talk about the infamous Major Trumbo.” A customer called out, and June patted Pippa’s arm and was off.

  Why was Major Trumbo infamous? But June was gone. Pippa called after her, “The sandwich was delicious. Thank you, June. I hope to see you again before I leave.”

  June sent her a little wave. “Do come back, Pippa.”

  It was nearly one o’clock when Pippa stepped onto the sidewalk and breathed in the fresh, clean St. Lumis air. It was chilly now, but tourists were still thick on the ground, eating ice cream, laughing, enjoying themselves. She smiled at everyone she passed and walked toward Whale Head Court and the Sleeman mansion. The house was still mostly colonial, with two stories, painted white with dark green trim. It was set back from the lane on a slight rise, with lots of maples and oaks and pines surrounding the beautifully maintained grounds. It was the only house on Whale Head Court with a big circular driveway. A BMW and a Lexus SUV, both silver, shined bright beneath the afternoon sun. The house was even bigger than she remembered. They’d built an addition that looked like a conservatory, with lots of windows and a lovely green domed roof.

  A child’s voice said, “I don’t know you. Why are you staring at my grandma’s house?”

  19

  Pippa turned to see a little girl in jeans, sneakers, and a Baltimore Ravens sweatshirt, too large for her. She was holding a basketball she’d been bouncing up and down on the driveway.

  Where was the hoop? “Hi, I’m Pippa. What’s your name?”

  “I’m Anjolina Sleeman, Jo for short. That’s what everyone calls me, but my mama hates it. She always says I’m Anjolina, with an O. I think she was stoned when she picked that name and Daddy let her. She didn’t even spell it right.” She paused. “Maybe Daddy was stoned, too. When I grow up, I’m going to ask them why they weren’t stoned when they named my brother. His name is normal—Christopher.”

  Pippa was charmed. This kid could rule the world someday. She said, “So your grandparents live here? It’s a lovely house.”

  Anjolina dribbled a couple of times, nodded. “Yes, Grandpa and Grandma live here. I told you, it’s their house. My pain-in-the-butt brother and I visit on Sundays so my folks can drive to Washington to eat at their favorite restaurant in Foggy Bottom.” The little girl thought a moment, frowning. “Do you know why it’s called Foggy Bottom?”

  “I guess I knew once, but I forgot, sorry.”

  The little girl shook her head. “That name makes it sound like they were stoned, too.”

  Pippa laughed, couldn’t help it. “So what’s your dad’s name?”

  “Mama calls him ‘jerk’ a lot, but his real name is Mason. Mama said it was his great-granddaddy’s name and that’s why he got stuck with it.”

  The little girl leaned over and started bouncing the basketball from right to left, left to right, imitating Steph Curry. She was smooth and looked up, never at the ball. “My stupid brother got sick because he ate too many candy bars last night. I told him Captain America wouldn’t stuff food down like a baboon, but he wouldn’t listen. Well, he puked it all up. My parents still went to Foggy Bottom. Grandma is letting him lie on the couch and watch TV. She brought him saltine crackers and ginger ale. Do you know, he doesn’t even like basketball? Can you believe that?”

  “No, I can’t,” Pippa said. “And here you are, doing Steph proud. You take it easy, Jo.” Pippa was turning to leave when t
he front door opened and a large older woman appeared. Solid-looking, that was Pippa’s first impression, and she wasn’t dressed like the lady of the manor, either. No, she was wearing jeans and a red turtleneck and she was wiping her hands on her apron. Was this Mrs. Sleeman?

  “Jo, don’t bother the lady.”

  Pippa took a chance and called out, “Mrs. Sleeman?”

  “Yes, I’m Joyce Sleeman. Who are you?”

  “Pippa Cinelli. I grew up in St. Lumis. I’m back for a short visit. I remembered your beautiful home.”

  Pippa could see the woman relax from twenty feet away. Whatever else she might be, Pippa was a local and thus harmless. “Come in, why don’t you, and have a cup of oolong tea. My precious little brain-dead grandson isn’t moaning so loudly from his bellyache. Field just got home—Mr. Sleeman, my husband. I remember you now. Your mama had such a green thumb. She could make any place in St. Lumis look as green as Ireland. And her flowers, I miss all the gorgeous colors. I remember neighbors would bring her dead plants and I swear she’d have them dancing the hula within a week. Your mama had amazing juju. I trust she still does?”

  “She does indeed.”

  “Do come in, Ms. Cinelli.” She said to Jo, “It’s not too cold, Jo, so you can stay outside and practice your dribble.”

  Pippa gave Jo a little wave and followed Mrs. Sleeman into the grand house. She hadn’t remembered how spectacular it was inside, all golden polished wood and rich Persian carpets, a chandelier overhead sparkly as diamonds.

  A man’s voice came from behind her. “And who is this? Wait, I saw you last night at the Halloween party at Leveler’s Inn. Sorry, didn’t get your name.”

  Mrs. Sleeman said, “Field, this is Pippa Cinelli. She grew up here in St. Lumis. You remember her parents, don’t you?”

  “Of course. How are they?”

  “They’re great, thank you, sir. They moved to Boston seven years ago. I saw you, too, last night at Leveler’s Inn.”